


The Queen's Slippers

by oneill



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: F/F, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneill/pseuds/oneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the fic_promptly prompt: Final Fantasy Tactics, Agrias and Ovelia, foot-washing</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Slippers

Agrias found Ovelia sitting out in the churchyard, nursing a bloodied foot--cut on a sharp rock that had lain hidden in the tall grass, no doubt. Ovelia looked up at her like a child caught in mischief, but Agrias could hardly blame her. The relative freedom of Orbonne must have been intoxicating, and it _was_ a mild, late spring morning.

She bent wordlessly to gather Ovelia into her arms.

"I can walk," Ovelia said, almost too quietly to hear, but Agrias was ever attentive to that voice.

"It is no burden," she said.

In truth, Ovelia seemed to weigh less than Agrias's armor, and it took no time at all to carry her through the churchyard and into the monastery's small bathing room. Agrias set Ovelia on the stone steps that led up to the wooden tub and retrieved a basin and a ladle from the nearby shelves.

Elder Simon had already lit the fire, and the water was passably warm. She dipped the basin in to fill it, then set it at Ovelia's feet. Finally, she hastened to Ovelia's cell and returned with her disregarded slippers.

As Agrias moved to pull off her gloves, however, she hesitated. She knew without even touching them that Ovelia's feet were softer than her own hands. Ragged scars and a few fresh scabs crosshatched her knuckles, while thick calluses shielded her palms and finger pads. Normally a source of quiet pride, they embarrassed her now.

"Agrias?" Ovelia said, a trace of a frown on her brow. "Truly, you needn't worry over so trifling an injury."

Agrias shook her head. "My mind but wandered a moment, Highness."

"Are you certain? You seemed--"

Agrias gently took Ovelia's right foot in hand and ladled a bit of water over it to rinse away the worst of the blood and soil before guiding it to the basin, followed by the left. She washed them in soft, lavender-scented soap, running her palms over Ovelia's graceful arches, threading careful fingers between her toes, ever mindful of the wound's tenderness. She shifted her grip to reach Ovelia's heels and heard a soft gasp above her.

"I'm sorry, Lady," Agrias murmured. "I know my hands are rough."

"No, that's . . . I think they're lovely."

Agrias looked up in surprise. Ovelia shrank into her cloak, the fall of her hair veiling her expression. The quiet stretched between them, mitigated only by the crackling of the fire and the first waking twitters of the birds.

At length, Ovelia said, "They are the hands of one who acts, and not of one who is acted upon."

The compliment warmed Agrias, but reality remained as cold as the stone beneath her knees. "Nay, Lady," she said, rinsing the soap from Ovelia's feet. "I act only at the behest of the Crown. You would do as well to praise a sword for its noble service."

"You slander yourself, Agrias." Ovelia's voice remained as delicate as ever, but she raised her chin, regal defiance in her eyes. "Were the Crown's hand to turn against me, would your sword be the one to strike me down?"

Agrias inclined her head. _Never._ She would fight until the earth drank the last of her blood, would stand even in the face of God's wrath, were it in defense of this girl. And, in her heart of hearts, she cherished still other sins that did not bear conscious thought. She could not give voice to such treason--to such blasphemy---but it seemed her actions had betrayed some trace of them to Ovelia. _Were you queen, such a conflict would never arise._

Aloud, she said, "Forgive me."

Ovelia's slight hand stroked Agrias's hair. "It is not I you wrong."

Head still bowed, Agrias dabbed Ovelia's feet dry before anointing the wound with a potion from her pack. It chilled her fingers, then numbed them slightly, though not enough to render them clumsy. Her hand lingered after bandaging Ovelia's foot, as though willing the injury to mend. Agrias was no White Mage, however, and so she could only wait for the potion to aid Ovelia's own body in healing itself.

She reached for Ovelia's slippers: crafted of softest coeurl skin and dyed crimson. Agrias slid them over Ovelia's pale feet. Then, without allowing herself time to think, she bent to touch her forehead to the tips of Ovelia's toes.

_Were you queen, I could serve unreservedly._


End file.
